


Shining Like Dark Stars

by TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel



Series: Dark Stars [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Demons, Fallen Angels, M/M, Sherlock and John are fallen angels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 03:19:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel/pseuds/TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts on a cold, dark night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shining Like Dark Stars

** Shining Like Dark Stars **

It’s a cold, dark night as the two of them slip into the hospital. They’re formless and bodiless as smoke, but for the billow of dark wings, and go unseen by human eyes. Inside the hospital the light is a pitiless white glare, the rooms oppressively clean, and they flit through the hallways like figments of the imagination.

The search through the hospital, until they find a birth in progress. The babe isn’t  breathing, its fragile life losing its tether: it’s a perfect candidate for what they have in mind.

_ Wish me luck,  _ says the elder one, and turns to where the baby is entering the world. 

_ Always,  _ the brighter shadow whispers.

It only takes a moment; the baby’s soul drifts away, like a leaf on the wind, and between instants the elder one slips smoothly into the tiny body, taking up residence and making the baby’s body its own.

The chest expands and deflates, expands again: a baby’s cry splits the air, a sharp, overwhelmed wail, as the sense and perceptions of the body take hold.

_ I’ll find you,  _ the other one promises the baby, and continues its search.

The brighter shadow waits for a suitable body of its own, but it takes a long time. The shadow doesn’t mind; it has learned patience, these long aeons, and after all, it has time to spare. Time passes, and it wonders how the elder one is doing, with its human body and human life.

Eventually the circumstances are repeated: a baby born who doesn’t breathe, whose heart doesn’t beat – an untenanted form, just waiting for something to slide inside and take this body for itself.

The younger shadow does so, feels the flesh enclose it, the two becoming one.

It opens its mouth, breathes, and opens its eyes to the wide world beyond.

“Oh darling, look at him,” says the baby’s new mother, and he looks at her with blurry, unfocused new eyes. Blinks, and settles against her chest, flushed with triumph as his tiny heart flutters with its new beat.

It’s many long years before the two shadows are reunited.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes meets John Watson in St Bart’s one day, and _knows_.

The other man is substantially shorter than him, with ashy blonde hair and a surprisingly sombre face, but his eyes are blue and deep and there are shadows at his back that almost resemble wings.

The not-a-stranger looks at him and his eyes widen, and he laughs; delighted, incredulous laughter, his eyes shining like the sun with his joy, and Sherlock knows that he’s been recognised at well.

“Where have you been all my life?” the blonde man laughs, smiling, and only the two of them know he really means it.

“Waiting for you,” Sherlock retorts, but he’s smiling as well. “What took you so long?”

“Do you two know each other?” Mike Stamford asks, looking mystified.

“Nope,” says the blonde man, grinning.

“Never met him before in my life,” Sherlock adds, and holds out his hand. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“John Watson,” the other man returns, and they shake hands. The touch is electrifying, their true natures coming into contact for a moment. There’s no mistaking the other: after all this time, they’d know each other anywhere, in any form.

“So, you’re looking for a flatmate,” says Sherlock. “Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it.”

“That sounds great,” says John, smiling. Sherlock realises that they’re still holding hands, that they’ve been holding hands for far too long, but he doesn’t care. _He isn’t alone anymore._

“Excellent,” says Sherlock, and asks, “How do you feel about dinner?”

“Are you asking me on a date?” John queries, his eyebrows rising, but he’s _still_ smiling, just like Sherlock is.

“That depends on your perspective,” Sherlock smirks, and sees the answering gleam in John’s eyes.

“Dinner sounds fine.”

“Seven?” Sherlock suggests.

“Fantastic. You know a place?”

“I know all the places,” Sherlock says smugly, raising his own eyebrow.

“Sounds interesting,” John admits. “Can I get your phone number?”

Sherlock pulls a pen out of his pocket and waits, his eyes flicking down to John’s arm. John gets it – of course he does – and rolls up his sleeve. Sherlock briskly writes his number on the inside of John’s forearm, and caps the pen when he’s done.

“I’ll pick you up,” he tells John. “Address?”

John rattles it off, and Sherlock commits it to memory.

“Lovely to meet you,” Sherlock says, meaning it. “Sorry – got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.”

He winks at John, and swans off in a swirl of coat. Molly and Mike look gobsmacked as he goes past.

The last thing he hears as he leaves is John’s elated giggling, and Mike asking, “What the hell was that?”

* * *

Their possibly-a-date goes brilliantly. Sherlock learns all about John Watson, and the life he’s lived. He’s deduced much of it, of course, but there are so many things he can’t: all the stories John tells him, of his family and growing up and his time in the army, until he was invalided home because of a gunshot wound.

In return Sherlock tells him all about being a consulting detective, and John is just as enthralled as Sherlock was to hear about _his_ life. John asks all the right questions and makes amusing comments at the right times, and his eyes are blue and so very warm.

They leave the restaurant together, not ready to part yet, and spend half the night wandering London before they finally go their separate ways.

The next morning they meet to look at a flat, and everything is _perfect._

* * *

“Who’s this?” Lestrade asks, when Sherlock first turns up with John at a crime scene.

Sherlock feels himself smile, and doesn’t care.

“Dr John Watson,” he says, and he and John smile at each other.

“Oh my God, the Freak’s got a boyfriend,” says Donovan. “Who’d believe it?”

“Are you always this charming?” John asks her, and something in his eyes makes Donovan flush, suddenly self-conscious.

“Oh God,” says Lestrade, “tell me this isn’t a date, Sherlock you can’t bring your dates to crime scenes–”

“Don’t be absurd,” Sherlock snaps, while John giggles. “John will be assisting me.”

“Assisting you. Great,” says Lestrade. “Fine. Just don’t mess up my crime scene, alright?”

“Certainly not,” Sherlock sniffs, and together he and John make their way upstairs.

John is helpful, offering his professional opinion as Sherlock appraises the scene. It takes Sherlock several minutes to work out what has happened to the missing suitcase, but when he does – 

“Oh! _Oh!_ ” he exclaims, full of delight as he realises where it must have ended up.

“Sherlock?” John asks, and Sherlock whirls to face him.

“Serial killers are always hard,” he tells John. “You have to wait for them to make a mistake.”

John sees Sherlock’s glee, and understands instantly, a smile spreading across his own face.

“We can’t just wait!” Lestrade protests, slow as usual.

“Oh, we’re _done_ waiting!” Sherlock tells him happily, and grabs John’s hand. “Look at her, really _look!_ Houston, we have a mistake. Get on to Cardiff: find out who Jennifer Wilson’s family and friends were. Find Rachel!” 

He makes for the stairs, pulling John along behind him, as Lestrade finally catches on and calls out, “Of course, yeah – but what mistake?”

Sherlock whispers the answer into John’s ear. Grinning, John turns back at the bottom of the stairs, still hand-in-hand with Sherlock, and yells back, “ _Pink!_ ”

They leave together, grinning with anticipation.

* * *

The two of them run around London solving crimes, John at Sherlock’s back like always, wielding a gun these days instead of a flaming sword, but as dependable as ever. Their life is adventure and camaraderie and excitement, and everything they ever dreamed of when they chose this path.

John comes back from his kidnapping by Mycroft looking bemused, and Sherlock smirks because if John’s bemused then Mycroft must have come away discombobulated. John might _look_ ordinary, but he really isn’t.

“Please tell me you know the melodramatic stranger who just abducted me,” John says, and Sherlock snorts.

“It’s fine, just my brother, Mycroft,” he explains, and John snorts as well, looking amused.

“Does he often kidnap your acquaintances?”

“Sometimes,” confirms Sherlock. “He’s overprotective.”

“Very,” John grins.

Sherlock wonders what his brother thinks of John. Whatever his assessment, Sherlock knows it won’t come close to the truth.

* * *

And then there’s Moriarty.

John frowns at Sherlock’s excited absorption with the Moriarty affair, but he understands Sherlock, and he knows it’s far too late to change either of their natures. So he does his best to support Sherlock as he works his way through Moriarty’s puzzles, until there’s only one left.

Sherlock has no intention of meeting Moriarty without John, but John…

John doesn’t come home.

So Sherlock goes on his own, and when he sees John – knows for certain that Moriarty has chosen _John_ as his next victim – his temper roars like an inferno, the shadows at his back shaking with rage.

John’s eyes are full of steely fury, his smile full of teeth, and the shadows behind him loom threateningly as Moriarty walks out.

“Is that a British Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?”

But Moriarty is just a man, and doesn’t see what manner of creature he’s angered; he doesn’t see the spread wings that mean danger, or the way that Sherlock and John’s teeth are too sharp in the dim light.

Sherlock feels the fire burst into life inside of him, dark and terrible. He sees John nod.

Moriarty’s screams are horrible as flames consume him from the inside out, John and Sherlock standing like dark shadows in the night. The snipers flee at the strange flickering light around them, and the smell of sulphur that fills the air.

Sherlock laughs, savage and free, and knows that John is filled with equal satisfaction.

* * *

Mycroft tracks them down as they sit by the poolside. 

The hellfire is gone, the stench of sulphur mostly dissipated, but Sherlock and John’s eyes are still dark and full of shadows. As Mycroft’s people search the area, Mycroft himself comes to a stop in front of them. His eyes rest briefly on their linked hands.

“I’m glad to see that you are both unharmed. Dare I ask what occurred here?”

“I wouldn’t,” says Sherlock.

“Really, you don’t want to know,” John agrees.

Mycroft looks at them, and for once he doesn’t push. Perhaps it’s the strange shadows that lie behind them.

“Very well,” is all he says. Then: “Moriarty is dead, I presume?”

“Oh, he’s dead,” John agrees.

“Very,” Sherlock confirms darkly.

He and John smile at each other, and Mycroft’s eyes flicker to the sharpness of their teeth, and he doesn’t say a word.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't decided yet if there'll be more of this, or not.


End file.
